Black Dawn
by Sirius R Black
Summary: Welcome to Hell. Enjoy your stay. I know I did. And of course that's not bitterness. I'd never be bitter. Always, Sirius [Angst][Rating][for][language][suicide][self mutilation][Chapter 7 up]
1. Quiet Wasted

_...you want the truth? I'll give you the truth. But that doesn't mean you're going to believe it. I don't even know why I'm in here. I don't know what I'm doing, when I'm doing it, or even why I'm doing it...You could ask the others and they'd tell you, they'd tell you they hate me, not because I was closer to their "Lord", but because I'm not one of them. You just go ask them. There, you've gotten the truth, but does it really matter? Does it make any difference what I say? No. _

**Disclaimer:Nothing is mine, happy?**No, but Azkaban, Sirius, and Cornelius Fudge all belong to the brilliant J.K Rowling. Only the plot and Reladanto are mine.

**_Convicted_**

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Wind whistled through two tall pillars of black stone, cavorting through the narrow pathway left between. The stone, once a deep obsidian, had become much lighter; nearly white due to the constant spray of the salt and sea. The ocean lapped peacefully against the island that rose so miraculously from the rolling sea, a dark place that never reflected the sun as the ocean did. This dark island had come to hold several of the world's most dangerous people--wizards who had done terrible things.

The island, however, was not surrounded by tall walls and barbed wire, as many others were, but stood alone with only the gates which stood between the two obsidian pillars. Several buildings remained on the island, yes, yet each stood with minimal fencing. There were other ways to keep prisoners from getting out. Jagged rocks rose up and met the water, the island dropping off into the water so very roughly. No sand, no beaches, just perilous, sharp rocks waiting for anyone who tried to run. This prison had stood still for so many years, silent except for the tortured screams within. This way it remained for many years, with very little interference. An occasional prisoner, perhaps, yet nothing like the excitement that stirred after that fateful event. It had been right near Halloween, in fact.

There was something different in the air that day, not the weather, but a presence, a feeling. The guards were even more alert than usual, and nothing fazed them. Something was going to happen, and just about everyone knew it. But at the moment Azkaban still stood, surrounded on every side, every edge, with the stormy gray waters and the sharp, edgy rocks. The screams of the prisoners could still be heard as one ventured forth, but every dementor was on alert, as if waiting for a signal or an arrival. Suddenly a boat could be seen heading towards the only flat part of the sea, a dock carved into the rock. The long awaited boat had finally arrived. The dementors snapped to attention. It had only been a matter of time before this prisoner was brought to them, and they were filled with the excitement and hunger of a new prisoner. And they knew how much of a challenge this man would be.

The covered boat screeched to a halt outside the tall, black, spiky gates, sending a fine spray of seawater over the already salty rocks and walls surrounding the prison. Jutted buildings could be seen towering in a lopsided manner above the gates, a stormy gray color blocking the rays of the early morning sun. A door banged open, and two dementors glided out, an excitement brewing about them like no other. A dark-faced, limp prisoner followed them out, chained tightly in many places. Then a few Ministry officials made their way out, and everyone knew what was coming next. The few sane prisoners leaned against the bars restricting them to catch a glimpse of this a man; a man whom many hated for putting them in Azkaban. Jeers and hisses could be heard from several of the muttering, hopeless prisoners, as several realized who it was. But no one that day realized that the true supporters of the Dark Lord were not jeering at the Minister, but at the prisoner that was being brought in.

The dank, gray walls of Azkaban riveted violently off the young Minister's lime green suit. Cornelius Fudge. Newly appointed, and sadly the last splash of color these prisoners would see for a long time. Everything soon turned some shade of gray while in Azkaban. Another man followed Fudge out, an older man. Many recognized him as the previous Minister of Magic, and the company made their way down a long hallway to hisses and long strings of mindless babble.

The prisoner was thrown roughly onto a hard chair in a room filled with the dim, bouncing light of many candles. He finally reacted, shifting himself so that the shadows covered most of his face. Several of the chains binding him rattled along with his short breath, and he laid his hands in his lap so that some of the rattling would cease. The Dementors hung by the door as several more gathered around him to watch the questioning. The man let out a long, breathless groan, but it was unheard by the two men, who had disappeared into a small room beyond this dark one.

The questioning often caused a slight uproar at Azkaban, but never like this. This man had been wanted for so many things; he had so many secrets that everyone hoped to know. Every prisoner, which happened to be quite a few weekly, was brought into this small, cramped room and questioned. But their answers never mattered, for once a detainee was brought this far, it was impossible to get out. Many said it was quite pointless, but the Minister seemed to enjoy tearing apart what was left of his prisoner's dignity.

A cruel fate, perhaps, being left to fall victim to insanity at such a dreary place, but in the wizarding world it was a common, if not gentle, punishment. For a new Lord was rising, a man that caused great fear, and his supporters had been hunted for years now. No one had ever escaped the dreadful prison, although many had tried, because of the Dementors. The horrible, black dementors sucked every bit of happiness for life, and caused the prisons' mass insanity. Lost in this dark trap with only your memories is a hard enough fate, but having every happy memory drained from your grasp could create a whole new experience, which is what the Ministry, who had created this horrible prison, had hoped for. Prisoners were thrown into this life of despair without a bright ending in sight.

A look of despair crossed the prisoner's face when the two men returned and closed the door tightly behind them.

"I hate this place, Reladanto, let's get this over with as quickly as possible." Cornelius muttered quietly as they approached the dementors.

Reladanto merely nodded, a stony look of neither happiness nor disappointment crossing his face.

"You have five minutes to explain yourself, Sirius Black."

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Next chapter posted faster the more reviews I get...so get reviewing! Loved it, Hated it? I don't care. Review. Flames will be used to toast marshmellows.

Siri-


	2. A Fair Trial

_And it just keeps getting better and better..._

**Note: **This is set right after the Potters' Death, for those who were confused. This deals with Sirius' first (and only) trip to Azkaban and the 13 years he spent there.

Well, I won't waste your time much longer. Read away, and review away as well. Still more of an introductory chapter. Enjoy. :)

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"When do I get my trial?" Sirius asked in what appeared to be complete calmness.

"The date of your trial is yet to be scheduled. But I doubt that you will need a trial. There's plenty of room here. Now, on with your testimony."

"I want my trial." Sirius growled. "You have no right to deny me what I deserve."

"If you want what you deserve, Black, then I shall call a dementor to give you your little kiss right now." Fudge snapped agitatedly.

Sirius paled to an even lighter shade of white than he had before. His once tan complexion was white with sickness and mistreatment, and his worries were set on his trial. "You can not give orders to perform the kiss without a trial either," Sirius spat in return. "I'm not stupid you know, and I'm not a murderer."

"Now, you are wasting my precious time. Start talking."

"I didn't do it."

"You deny it! HOW DARE YOU DENY IT! We have proof! WE SAW YOU! YOU TRULY ARE INSANE!"

Sirius looked like he was ready to snap, but Reladanto placed a hand on his shoulder. "Cornelius, this is not how we treat the prisoners." His gaze fell upon Sirius, and a glimmer of sympathy shimmered, but only for a moment.

"So you deny charges against being the right-hand man of He-who-must-be-named, committing several murders before betraying your supposed best-friend and his wife, and then murdering Peter Pettigrew in broad daylight, blowing up a street and killing 13 muggles in the process? Do you deny this?"

Sirius glared at Fudge for a moment, a look of utmost loathing in his eye. "I deny it. I deny every god dam word of it. I am not a murderer."

Fudge was growing mad with rage. "YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO DENY THESE CHARGES? You were allowed to get away with some things as a child, Mr. Black, but you can not get away with lying! I think that you should be locked up in an insane asylum! You are a deranged murderer!"

"Right now you seem deranged to me," Sirius muttered so no one else could hear.

"Mr. Black, I don't think you should be taking this so lightly." Reladanto said lightly, and Sirius looked at for a moment, features hardening.

"Sir," he said viciously, "I wouldn't murder anyone. You, of all people, should know that I wouldn't murder my best friend."

"I didn't know a lot about you Sirius, and I can't answer your questions for you."

"I'm not asking you to answer my questions! I'm asking you to give me a fair shot! Let me prove my innocence! I can even tell you who it was, and where he is!"

"I have no say over this, Mr. Black, and you know it."

"You would even rat out your fellow death eaters to save yourself. You've sunk low Black. And don't think you can use that as a trade, because we will get it from you anyways!"

"Really, so that's why so many death eaters are so close to you, huh! They rat their fellow death eaters out and you keep them out of prison! But it doesn't matter, because you hate me and I hate you, and I wouldn't tell you even if I knew!"

"SIRIUS! We do not want to hear your accusations and ramblings!"

"I'M YOUR SON AND YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME! YOU CAN'T EVEN GIVE ME MY NAME!" Sirius spat murderously.

"I can not simply believe you because you are my son. The evidence is challenging, Sirius, and I am not going to take your side, or anyone's."

"You are taking sides! Right now! You are accusing me of killing my best friend for some dumbass crackpot Lord! WHY THE HELL WOULD I DO THAT?"

"I don't know Sirius! It's your decision and I can't tell you how you think!"

"MAYBE THIS IS WHY MY LIFE IS SO FRICKIN SCREWED UP! MAYBE IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, YOU KNOW THAT? You can't even believe your own son, and I still don't have a trial. AND YOU DON'T CARE DO YOU? You'll go back to work thinking nothing more than, oh good, another death eater down. WELL GUESS WHAT? YOU'RE WRONG! Keep it up like this and only death eaters will be left! AND YOU! And then…YOU'LL SEE HOW MANY INNOCENT PEOPLE ARE BEING ACCUSED OF TREASON AND MURDER! I HATE YOU!" Sirius screamed, but Fudge and Reladanto had ordered the dementors forward and they had begun to yank Sirius up and towards the door. "WHEN YOU'RE DOWN ON YOUR LAST THREAD BECAUSE SOME DEATH EATER FINALLY REVEALS HIMSELF TO YOU, I HOPE YOU THINK OF WHAT I SAID!" Reladanto poked his head out in what might have been concern, but all he said was,

"We do not need to hear your ramblings now, Sirius. Guards, take him to the cell we discussed earlier."

"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU RELADANTO!"

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Reladanto's a pleasant man, don't you think? So nice...Credit goes mostly to Igor for this lovely creation (aknightofni)  
Want me to post faster? Review please. 


	3. Haunting Reflections

Hey guys. Wow, I owe you all an apology for not updating. I do have a fair explaination, and the next few chapters will be posted rather quickly. I got a new computer--one without a floppy drive and I had no means of transferring the data from the computer I write on to the one with internet. Finally figured it out. Sorry everyone. >

Hope you enjoy this next chapter; **Warning: Explicit language and will get worse, so please don't read if you are offended or anything other. **

**DISCLAIMER:** No, I still don't own Harry Potter, or Sirius Black in this case. Oh, but I will...

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Sirius was dragged away from the small room, still fighting, but the dementors soon weakened the man, their grasp of power already getting to him and throwing off his senses. Sirius had never seen dementors before, but he had read about what they did to people. But no words seemed to describe their terror, as they seemed to just barely resist the urge to do their 'job'. To suck out souls. Even if the minister had warned them very fiercely, Sirius could feel their restlessness mixed in with own, and every happy thought of the past was beginning to fade away. Sirius tried unsuccessfully to resist the dementors power, but soon felt himself falling, lost, into a world of blackness. The dementors threw everyone into this depression, and, once fallen to the will of dementors, one could never go back. Sirius tried to struggle and keep his thoughts from these foul creatures, but to no avail. It was a long walk to his cell, too. A very long walk. After the had crossed half of the prison and appeared in one of darkest, smallest, dankest corners that the dirty prison could possibly have, the dementors pulled open the door and roughly threw Sirius in. The hooded figures seemed to cackle and jump with excitement at this new prisoner, and Sirius would have sworn they were laughing. Demntors seemed to have their own language, Sirius could insist, but no one would ever believe him. Because no one would ever live through something like this.

Sirius looked at the dimness around him and listened to the dementors sweeping by. Sirius was painfully aware of how the dementors moved from his cell. Every sweeping sound or long hiss came from one. There were no prisoners in Sirius' section, but he had still been given the smallest and darkest cell.

Sirius sat in his cell, deep in thought. It had been less than a day and he could already feel his defenses weakening. How did he land himself in Azkaban exactly? That good-for-nothing, goddamn Peter Pettigrew! I can't believe something like this could ever happen! My best friends, dead, me in prison, Peter Pettigrew, the god damn murderous traitor, running around the sewers, that god damn rat, and everyone else thinking I killed James. But why? Sirius' thoughts were filled with anger. His story was a very long one, and he truly was innocent. And then the goddamn Ministry had to come—and my lower-than-life piece of scum father. I don't know which is worse, my father or Fudge! Sirius, quite sick of sitting on a rock-hard bed, sat down on the floor in the corner where he could rest against the wall. Quite surprisingly, and sadly, the floor seemed much softer compared to the bed. Figures, came a bitter thought from Sirius. The floor seemed like a much better place to sit. Until something hairy and large crawled onto his hand, that is. Sirius yelled out and jumped up, but the dementors just laughed in their eerie language and continued sweeping back and forth.

"God damn fucking spiders!" Sirius spat loudly, but no one was there to hear him, or to care. No one human that is, as the dementors' eerie laughter washed over him. If anything was to drive him crazy in this place, it would be the dementors' laughter. Maybe that was why the place had such an accursed reputation. No one had ever survived Azkaban, and no one had ever escaped. And they thought no one ever would.

I brushed a spider off my shoulder for the thirtieth time that week—or what I supposed to be week. No time in Azkaban—go to sleep, wake up, count a new day. The time seemed to stand still, only sleeping and eating broke the treacherous routine, the cycle that soon became ritual for me. The ritual, as I began to call it, was disrupted one day by loud voices and long screaming wails. The dementors, who usually swept around aimlessly, their purpose being none, seemed quite excited, and their reactions almost seemed human. But eerie—a very disturbing human trait, pressing themselves nearer the wall, listening, their evil laughter washing over me again. I felt myself shudder, an odd chill passing through me. This seemed to be a special day. There were prisoners coming to my wing, my own space that had been empty since I had arrived. I was donned dangerous, even to the other prisoners. Fudge was convinced that I would laugh like a madman at all hours. I only did during my 'mug-shots' as muggles call them, and that was because of how damn cynical I was feeling, and how ironical the situation was.

Ah, my situation. Why the hell I am here, insisting to everyone that I am innocent. That's a long story, and now, as I've have many long, quiet moments to think about it, the story unfolds itself to me, so simple and clear. Only if it were this clear a few weeks ago. It is entirely my fault. My best friend is dead…because of me. James and Lily Potter died because I thought I was being brave. Because I put so much trust into one man, and didn't stop to see the evil brewing behind his weak and temptacious veil. You see, my friends knew that Voldemort, hell I'll say the name, and he isn't a Lord either, was after them. They went seeking protection, and one of the greatest men alive, Albus Dumbledore, I'll get to him later, suggested to them something called a 'Secret-Keeper'. Great idea, and James chose me—me to protect him, Lily, and their one-year-old baby Harry. I felt a chill run through me as I repeated his name softly. Harry…my precious godson…the only survivor.

At this thought I sighed loudly, but the dementors made no rustle or inquisition to me as one of the new prisoners screamed a reply. They were awfully excited over this trial, must be many people…and they're eager…way too eager. If I wasn't behind bars they would be after me, and I probably would have lost my soul. I've learned to stay away from them, as far away as possible. Which is hard, considering that I'm the only one in this branch of hell, with about 20 dementors on me at all times. It's hard to stay sane…to stay in the least bit positive, but right now they're not focusing on me…it's so god damn hilarious how ironic this situation has turned out to be.

Anyway, the spell was completed and I was the Potters' Secret Keeper. But, I sighed again, I thought good ol Voldie, yes, damn right I'll call him that too, would come straight to me when he learned of the spell. So I, doing what I hoped would save their and my damned life, decided that they should change secret-keepers. James chose Remus Lupin, my best, but now lost, friend, as his second choice, but Remus had been acting so god-damned secretive and snappy around me that I thought he was a spy. How cynical that situation was, me accusing my best friend of something like that. Anyway, I had a new thought, something I thought would be perfect—completely unsuspecting. Well, that's where my being in Azkaban comes in; Peter Pettigrew.

Tagging along with James, Remus, an' me all through school but we stuck by him---that murderous, traitorous pile of dragon shii—Sorry, I'll stop now…I thought he'd be perfect for the job, so weak and powerless, good ole Voldie would never guess to check him…so of course I suggested it right away to James, and of course James trusted my opinion. I only wish that I had known then what I know now. Peter was passing information to Voldemort—god damned stinking rat! It gets worse—not many people know that I was once the potters' secret keeper—but they all are sure that I killed them, that I myself killed my best friends. And I good as well did—because I handed them to Peter, my once trusted friend. This is my fault—I should have died rather than risk their lives by switching. I didn't know that Peter had been passing information to Voldie, and I'm very prone to calling that serpent Voldie right now…and I didn't know that that spineless bastard was even capable of laying eyes on the serpent without dying of fear—he probably wet himself every time 'The Serpent' addressed him. You know, I am becoming fonder of 'The Serpent' for that sniveling man to whom I was once driven to call Voldie.

But the fact still remains—everyone's life has been changed by this—everyone's. My best friends, my family, even that sniveling crook-and here I'm not sure if I'm talking about Snapple or Pettigrew, but what does it matter? And one other fact still remains as well---this is all, completely and utterly, my fault. I banged my head against the wall loudly, which only caused a few dementors to stir in a bout of anger and confusion. Oww…I think I killed off some more brain cells. I tended to do this a lot lately, and I was beginning to believe that someone's head is capable of leaving marks. Oh great, there goes my damn cyincality again. And yes, according to my friend, cynicality is a real word. But she was crazy, so who's to say? I miss her to death however…that girl helped me through every problem I ever faced. Every trouble. "Trouble." That word caught the dementors attention, as one swooped angrily towards me. Instantly these happy thoughts began to fade, a pounding feeling burst into my head and I was blinded for a moment.

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I shook it off slowly; it seemed worse than usual. I got a bad case of chills at that moment, and fell back against the rock-hard bed, sitting once again. I hadn't even realized that I had stood up in the first place—the dementor's spell was beginning to take hold on me. He had tried to pull me to him, drag me to his mercy, now I remember…but he had stopped. Footsteps and the gliding sound of the dementors were heading towards my wing. Many footsteps echoed throughout the place, and to my dismay, I saw Fudge, wearing a bowler and pinstriped suit, step through first, the dementors a few feet behind him. The dark-faced prisoners, yes it was a whole group of them, followed between, several chained together and led by several human guards. Humans…guards here at Azkaban, they must be putting the worst possible prisoners in here with me—although they think I am one of them. Several hooded shapes enter afterwards, and Fudge turns to address them.

"You will lock these prisoners each along the left side," Fudge said sharply. The left side—they would be next to me, but I was still jammed in a corner. "They are, under no circumstance, allowed to be taken out until their trial."

"How come they get an effing trial?" I muttered quite angrily and loudly.

"Keep Mr. Black from muttering these obscenities." Fudge commanded before turning on the dementors. "He has been here a week and is still completely sane—he remembers everything."

"I'd like my trial!" Sirius exclaimed as several of the death eaters leered and hissed at him. He leaned against the bars to his prison casually and looked almost at home. "I'm not one of them."

"Mr. Black, we are not classifying you as 'one of them'." Fudge snapped peevishly. "You are under a much more severe classification, as the right-hand-man of He-who-must-not-be-named and a dangerous murderer." Fudge pointed to Sirius' 'mugshots' (for lack of a better name) and watched as Sirius laughed insanely. Sirius watched darkly. That cynical feeling was getting to him again, so he retreated towards the furthest corner of his cell, where shadows would prevent him from being seen. Much to his dismay, the jeers and hisses of the true death eaters lasted much longer than Fudge's booming voice. When he and the guards had stepped from the room and only dementors were left, one prisoner hollered to him.

"Youuu……you ruined our master! You do not deserve to be even mistaken for one of us…ha…a faithful death eater!" a woman cried out pitifully. Sirius tried his best to ignore the similar comments coming from the group.

"Black…whooooo…Our Lord will come…they will save us and destroy you…your weakness is apparent Black…we have started our conquer!" one, male, screamed, and Sirius tried to shrink further back. Just ask the true supporters, he thought bitterly, they all want me dead because I'm not one of them!

But Fudge seemed to believe that these death eaters wanted me dead because I was the Serpent's right-hand man and they hated me because 'The Serpent' favored me. Over my dead body! And that's true, the day I listen to the serpent…the day I become a death-eater…why that's the day Snape and I get along! Snape…that filthy Death Eater…how dare he…always knew he was trouble…

I was quite rudely shaken out of my thoughts by a death eater's cries and pleas for mercy. A dementor had swooped down on him in a furious fit, but not as terrible as the prisoner's yells. If there was anything that stupid prisoner deserved, it was nothing short of a nice terrifying dementor right in his face—but the screams were giving me quite a terrible headache. That stupid dementor was really close to my cell—right next door, so I picked up a chunk of rock hard bread from my plate—I really wasn't hungry for once in my life—and chucked it at the dementor. Direct hit. It caused him to draw back, and the man's screams turned to frantic mutterings. That man would only be there a few more days, I judged, before he would die of craziness. Serves him right.

Serves everyone but me right…that they shall die in a retched place like this. And why not me? Because I wouldn't let them get to me. It had been a month—and this man was the last of that group that had been brought in. New prisoners had replaced the emptied cells but many of them had gone as well. Only a few remained for a long while, and at long last my neighbor, who jeered loudly and rudely at me at all hours before he lost all sanity, was going to be gone too.

As I sat that day, the minutes since the screams had ceased, I realized how much I wanted that bread now that it was gone. Although it had gone to a good cause, I regretted wasting my daily meal. I also had some soup-y looking gruel, and I was beginning to grow extremely hungry. I began to wish that none of this had happened, and I began to resent Peter and 'The Serpent' more than ever, my anger directed at those two in particular. This obsession grew over the next few months, as prisoners came in and were carried out under a grimy white sheet merely weeks later.

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	4. Rhythmic Routines

_The days seemed to drag by once in Azkaban, day melting to night and night melting to dreary day. We ate, we slept, we sat awake according to our own schedules, with little else to keep us going except for this often trodden routine..._

Hope everyone is enjoying the story so far; here's your next chapter. Much shorter than the last, but a section of its own. Meaning I will probably be posting the next chapter sooner. So read and review (which always motivates me to post sooner)

**_Note about the last chapter_**: It was supposed to be in first person view throughout, that was my editing mistake, so I apologize for any confusion.

**That oh-so-bothersome Disclaimer: **I still don't own anything...only the ideas that float around in my spacey little head.

And thanks to all of my reviewers, I'm waiting for the end of the story for responses for now

So get reading!

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I believed only once that it was my time, I had spilled gruel onto a dementor's head in pure anger and it swooped down upon me. I felt first the familiar sensation of happiness being drained, but there was little happiness left, and then I felt my entire mind beginning to dim. I forgot who I was, and why I was there, which was nice for a moment. I learned something that day. When a dementor had almost completed his "job" as I would say, every happy thought goes rushing through your mind, disappearing in a flash. Then the grayness began to take over, but the dementor did not finish its job as it drew back in a fury. Screams from several younger women brought it from its concentration and woke me from my dreamlike state. The gray edges that had been dripping through my mind cleared almost instantly and the first image that came to my mind was an image of my godson; my precious godson Harry.

I realized how little I thought of him as a feeling of immense happiness washed over me. He had been the only survivor out of the Potters'. I hung my head at the thought of James and Lily, and the happiness dimmed, melting away as the familiar darkness closed in. But further thoughts of the giggling baby filled my mind, and the dementors couldn't ever suck that happy a thought away. I had seen Harry in the wreckage, had fought to keep my godson in my possession. But I had been talked out of it, and had gone on to this. I sighed, a deep, tired and sad sigh. The prisoner next to me started to imitate me, not the one who muttered obscenities on the other side, but a different one. He sighed several times and then began to mutter as I shot a dark look at him.

I found a rather interesting game to play with this one man that came in a few days ago. He replaced the mumbling man that had been screaming at the dementor before. He had gone within two days, and the good thing about Azkaban is that they waste no time getting them out. I shudder to think what would happen if my neighbor had been…I shivered rather violently at this thought. Even worse, I continued, beginning to enjoy these twisted thoughts, a cellmate. Luckily I had remained solitary, and upon questioning Fudge all I received was a disgruntled noise and an undistinguished mumble.

Anyways, the game. I would pick up a rock and chuck it through the bars and oftentimes it would bounce against the wall. The other man found it amusing and would retrieve it like a dog for hours. Speaking of dogs, I think that may be a great help to my sanity. The dementors have one single quality to my advantage; they can't see. Therefore I am able to easily transform into my animagus form, a dog. But I also have realized that the only way to transform is to actually have a clear mind. A good sign that I am not crazy. Which I'm not.  
The dog leads me to another story--I just realized how quickly my thoughts jump, but once in here for awhile, it is quite easy to skim over memories, letting each revel for a moment before a dementor may get wind of a happy thought. Back to my thoughts. I tossed a rock mindlessly across the cell and the man eyed it suspiciously. I was a dog anamagi, one of my well-guarded secrets. I had become an animagus, in short, for my best friend Remus Lupin. Remus was a werewolf, and he was ashamed. We eventually figured it out, being his best friends, and we had each worked to become animagi. James was a stag, Peter a rat…THAT HORRIBLE RAT! Sorry… I saw a dementor stir with an anxiety and excitement at my sudden rush of anger but I quickly calmed myself, leaving it to bristle in the chill atmosphere and glide away. Anyway, I was a great black dog. Once beautiful and sleek, I realized that my fur had become matted and dull. Of course, it was Azkaban--they didn't believe in showering often.

Or feeding for that matter. I think the food was the worst part; I always eat--always. Now I'm down to one meal of rock hard bread (actually pretty good if you gnaw on it for awhile) and a large splash of gruel that I barely touch. I must say, if there is anything semi-positive at all to say that I have become quite slim, although in a little while more I will be so thin it will be sickly. I know my face must be sunken and ghostly pale, and I truly don't deserve this much suffering. I moaned loudly to myself, and a rock fell at my feet. Sure, I deserved some amount of torture for the terror I had caused during school, but I fully believed that I had paid it over at least double since my arrival. Pile my best friends' death on top of it and I could have paid off a lifetime of debt.

I gazed down at the floor, lost in a sudden wave of misery, and saw the rock, rather large and oddly shaped, that had fallen by my feet. With a sudden jolt I realized it must have been the original rock I had thrown and a whine from next door confirmed my thoughts. I threw the rock with a sudden burst of energy and it bounced loudly against the wall. It was a good sign that I continued to be energized, I thought as I heard the man scrambling weakly towards the rock. The chamber had fallen into a lapse of silence, something rarely heard. I felt something; the man that had been begging for death was silent. I felt a strange shiver run through me and heard only the sound of the rock clattering around the floor. When the rock clattered to my feet in the dim light, I did not pick it up nor throw it back, but stared at in an unusually strange manner. I felt nothing, heard nothing; yet I felt everything and heard every steady, rhythmic pattern of the prison called Azkaban.

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Hope you enjoyed :)

Now get to reviewing.

Love,  
Siri


	5. A Prisoner's Curse

Alrighty. The next chapter. Just to get it going. Notes:

**This chapter has the beginnings of very violent content. Do not read if squemish in any way. **

**WARNING: Self-mutilation, descriptive violence, and suicide is in this chapter and ones following. DO NOT READ IF OPPOSED TO/SICKENED BY ANY OF THE AFOREMENTIONED**

Sirius is not mine, Azkaban is not mine, Everyone else in this chapter is. Ex. Jyhe, Thomas, Draconus, and the other prisoners belong to me. And Sirius' head.

Enjoy )

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I remember, in my early days here, before I could rightfully call myself a veteran-a true survivor-the nights I spent suffering from hunger. The smell, the rank, musty, suffocating air that swallowed one in its' mere presence. It was thick, nearly as thick as the silence that could only be pierced by the desperate pleas; so thick that breathing had become difficult. I'll admit I had little faith in the matter. Every night I found myself shaken from my restless sleep, on my hands and knees trying to exert any self-control I may have retained. I remember the pain of my throbbing head vividly, as though I had just arisen from one of my spells, panting and weakly wiping a pale hand across my mouth.

Oh, how I resented those days, how I hoped every night I would be able to stay in peace-the only peace I was able to find-my sleep. Only through sleep could I forget the misery of life-that is, when my dreams weren't plagued with ghastly pale shadows that whispered and jeered so similarly to those of my fellow inmates. Inmates that I did not have-for I had been alone for such a long time. Oh, how I had been desperate for any shard of company, and I often took to scouring the walls for messages left by previous inhabitants. Sometimes reading their miseries made me feel empowered-often it only made me sick.

Sickness. Azkaban is rank with sickness and disease-nasty things that every child was taught to stay away from. Corners in which heaps of some unknown liquid had long dried and become nothing more than an addition to the stony wall. Corners in which dying wishes had been hastily carved into the stone; oftentimes with a prisoner's own fingers. I would sit before a message, making up my own scenarios and recreating such a prisoner's life. Before long my loneliness had ebbed away, for my imagination and these uninformative pleas had allowed me to create my own little world-a small prison with several lively characters with distinct personalities and troubles of their own. Just from the one or two sentence messages scrawled on the walls, we had created our own little world.

It consisted of myself; a weasel-faced man named Draconus; a man with eyes that darted around the room so fast he looked even crazier than he was; a young man who sat sullenly in the corner, occasionally yelling curses to the world; a petite, sneaky man that often tried to con the others out of his food; a wizard wizened with many years, most spent in various prisons; and a young woman with piercing black eyes. These people became my company, and often I could sit for hours, simply gazing up into the rat-infested rafters and playing it out. There were endless possibilities…

And sometimes I simply stared at the writing, wondering how it truly was. This, however, always sent me into one of my 'trances', if you will, of exploring the others' true personalities to pass the time. I wondered what Jhye, the young woman with those black eyes, had meant when she scrawled cryptic messages into the walls. She, unlike the others, was undoubtedly female, yet I knew little else of her actual personality. The wall told me more about her than any other prisoner I had met-I simply knew their names. Jhye had been faithful to the wall-leaving her cryptic message-ones that I one day vowed to solve-set in stone with either a sharp little rock or her own fingernails. Her nails had been scratched off into the wall; blood red staining the long, gnarled chips.

These prisoners did bring me a small amount of comfort however, for I felt for once I was not alone. Out of them all, only the sullen young man and I could be considered innocent. Soon after the crowning of my own little Prison Utopia-such an oxymoron if you consider-I began to notice a change in their behavior. I began by living scenes filled with hope, the people creating what could assimilate into friendships. This bright light only shone for maybe a week. Soon they changed, my life growing as twisted and gnarled as Jhye's fingernails. Within two weeks, the company had whittled down to none other than Jhye, Draconus, and myself.

The others had suffered painful deaths-either self-induced or simply the result of insanity. The man with darting eyes had long ago stopped eating, instead opting to pass his food along to the con artist, obviously listening to his promises and vivid views of freedom. He soon whittled away to nothing more than a weak whisper of the night, and shortly that whisper, too, was lost. The wizened wizard cried for his time to go-he knew he would not make it past this imprisonment. He was gone quickly, his final words cursing the world and damning Fudge to hell, as well as several sultry comments toward 'The Serpent.' The con artist himself, who should have been the healthiest of us all-for he ate twice to three times (when Jhye was not hungry she as well passed her helping along) of what we all had-yet he had gone crazy. He screamed of freedom at all hours-often the only noise that could be heard throughout the prison. We still believe that it must have been one of the rats-one infected by some perilous disease that haunted the corridors and occasionally befell an inmate.

Finally, the sullen young man who had gone by the name Thomas. His death may have been the hardest to cope with-he sat in the cell next to mine and we often held conversations of our capture. Both were equally intriguing, both with a dark twist that undoubtedly landed us in our predicament. Thomas's, however, was a twisted love story that caused a web of lies and deceit. That's how both landed themselves in Azkaban-both Thomas and Jhye. Thomas had no idea of the tangled web being woven around him-the secrecy into which Jhye fell. She had been the only reason that Thomas had even known of Voldemort. Jhye was a spy-a spy for an American defense league. Yet she had been sucked into Voldemort's inner web without a problem-her ability to seem faithful must have been extraordinary. Jhye and Thomas-star-crossed lovers-at least, that's how the guards referred to them. They did, however, have enough sympathy-which is surprising considering the nature of Azkaban-to allow the two innocent lovers to remain together. Cruelty could have landed them on other ends of Azkaban, never to see each other again-yet I suppose the guards were human too…

He, unlike the others, did not fall to insanity, or simply die because of starvation or illness. I remember waking to his soft voice-a voice of a young professor. That's what he had been-a budding teacher with gentle eyes. His sea green eyes had hardened over here, for he acted as though he cared little.

"Sirius," he had whispered, "Sirius, goodnight. I just wanted to let you know-you've been a light in this hellhole. Thank-you," he had whispered as I sleepily opened one eye to look at him. "I didn't mean to wake you, I just had to say…good-bye…"

I gave him a small smile, one that I didn't realize I even had in me. "Thomas," I answered, still mostly asleep, "You've made this almost bearable…I should be thanking you," I admitted softly. At this he did not answer, yet his whispered 'goodbye' still floated through my ears. He shuffled away, and my consciousness lingered only a moment, only long enough for him to cross the room and begin with a soft "Jhye…"

I awoke the next morning to the sound of furious sobbing. Looking up, I quickly jumped to my feet and saw Jhye, hunched in a corner, knees drawn to her chest and face buried in her hands. Sure enough, it was she that had been wailing. I wondered for a moment why Thomas had not been instantly at her side, murmuring sweet comforts in her ear as he had during her last minor breakdown. My heart swelled; I immediately imagined the worst. Had Thomas been taken during the night? My guess, although wrong, was not far off and certainly equally macabre. Jhye looked up slowly at the sound of my voice, only to bury her head once again in her hands and resume her silent weeping. I quickly scanned the cell, seeing nothing at first. It only took me a moment before my eyes came to rest on the set of bunk beds on the opposite wall.

"No….." I trailed off as I saw what Jhye must have been so upset about. Daring not to investigate further, I know I will never forget the sight of Thomas's pale hand lying limply over the top bed, his arm sticking down at a strange angle, dried veins running down the sides and disappearing into his clenched fist. I swept the ground and quickly spotted Jhye's sharpened rock-sharp enough to cut stone, sharp enough to…to… Even my thoughts failed at this point. I went brain dead for a moment. I did the only thing I could think of. I thought.

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A little suspenseful, eh? Well, review away and I'll post the next part.

Hope you enjoyed. Comments/Crit welcome. Flames are used to toast marshmallows.


	6. Still thinking

I know, I know. Been way too long. I'm sorry. I thought I lost this, and then I found it. Good, right? Anywho, enough of the long drabbling, I'll let you get straight to the story.

Depressingish and whatnot. Romantically sappy and then depressing.

**Damned Disclaimer: NO, Sirius Black is not a fabrication of my mind. I do own him however...he sleeps under my bed and does my bidding. J.K. Rowling will be credited with originally creating him. **

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It came rushing to me-his conversation with me as I had been half asleep and even the conversation he had with Jhye the night before.  
"Jhye, Jhye my love," he had said as she was preparing to retire for the night. His voice had been soft then too. "Jhye…."  
"Yes Thomas?" she had replied in the same soft, loving tone. I had rarely before heard Jhye speak in such soft undertones, with so much emotion in her voice, so much caring. Yet her dark, lurid eyes even softened as she took a seat next to him.

He continued on, murmuring sweet nothings to her, telling her everything would be okay, and that they could soon go on, get married, and buy a small house in the country, forgotten by all who had once persecuted them. It had ended-well, as far as I was concerned-with a long, heartfelt kiss. One of those soul-searching, needy kisses that seems excruciatingly desperate, as if trying to cling to some small shard of hope. And the two of them were.

I quickly focused on Jhye. She continued weeping into her knees, her messy black curls falling everywhere, tangled and matted. "Jhye…" I whispered softly, having little idea of what I should have said.  
She looked up at me then, her eyes overflowing with tears, stains running down her pale and perfect cheekbones, her cherry red lips opening and closing as she panted for breath, trying to calm herself yet failing miserably. She truly was gorgeous; not in the sunny, happy type of way in which many girls deemed beautiful are, but in her own dark, mysterious way. She could have grown up to be lovely-a seductress that could bring any man to his knees. But that was not her purpose-she lived now only for love-love that had been snatched cruelly away from her.

"Why?" was her only question, the only thing that she could manage to choke. "He lied…he told me it would be alright…he lied." She was beginning to grow ever more hysterical, her voice growing rather high pitched and frightened. But underneath this slightly angered exterior, she was frantically, desperately lost. She was hurt-scarred in a way that would never be visible. She let out a small cry, the tears rushing forth again. For the first time in quite awhile I felt sick, feeling hot bile burn in my throat. I pushed it down, looking away from the treachery that had taken place during the course of the night.

Jhye's sobs continued to rise as the dementors floated through on their morning rounds. They sensed the imbalance immediately, flooding through the doorway as they hissed angrily. The guards came next, equipped with a dingy white sheet. They paid little attention to the terrified prisoner as they carelessly shoved her aside and balanced their way to the top bunk. Jhye gave a miserable sob and edged closer to where I crouched, transfixed yet trying my best not to watch the scene, and leaned against the bars separating the two.

With a sudden burst of compassion, I turned my gaze to Jhye and slid my hand through the bars, my wrist slipping easily through. Her hand quickly found mine, and she seemed to be holding on for dear life. She seemed as thought trying to bury her head in my chest; her head was nestled into the bars and her lined eyes squeezed closed. I just watched her, keeping my eyes off the grunting and cursing guards that were trying to painlessly heave the body off of the bed. An upward glance told me that the body was going to be thrown down. In order to cause Jhye as little pain as possible, I got up, still clutching her warm, pale hand, and felt around for a large rock.

Acting quickly, as the guards were preparing to toss the lifeless body from the bed, I threw it at a momentarily peaceful prisoner. Just as I had hoped, the yelling and screaming arose in such fits that it drowned out the violence that was going on in Jhye's own cell. Jhye was too distracted herself to notice my diversion, but I managed to spare her from further distress.

Soon the cell door slammed closed again and the guards had begun their solemn march down the row of cells. They had done a fair job covering Thomas's body, but still Jhye did not look up. Many hours of silence passed before Jhye reluctantly released my hand and retreated to her own corner, far from the bunk bed, and far from I. She was soon hard at work carving her cryptic and rather deranged messages into the stonewalls, although now they grew more frantic, more desperate pleas of any kind of escape.

I was left to my own twisted thoughts. Draconus had stayed rather silent throughout the whole ordeal; he was so used to spiting the star-crossed lovers I believed he had little idea of what to do. It almost seemed as though he were sorry to have Thomas go, sorry that he had nothing left to despise in this dank prison. He always hated the light. Always. So it came as no surprise that he wasted away where he was moved into yard work. He lasted no longer than a day in the sun before he never returned to us. I must say, neither of us was too sorry to see him go; it was just strangely quiet.

It was getting worse. Jhye no longer ate; she no longer slept. She cried at the slightest things, like when we were given our meals; the guards no longer delivered two bowls to her cell, nor a men's pair of sleepwear every other day. I felt so terrible for her-she was lost in depression. And in a place like Azkaban, and a situation like ours, it was near impossible to be pulled out of a depression. You know, there are times I really wished the guards had some heart. Most of the time I would be satisfied spiting them right back, returning their jeers and not caring along with them, but now it hurt me to watch their indifference as Jhye whittled away but continued to cling to life. She started refusing to eat, but it didn't end there.

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Hm, wonder what will happen next...

Well, best way to find out is review and give me some ideas. I'm almost to the point of having to write more, and ideas are loved.

Hope you enjoyed, and promise to update sooner. (You can bug me and yell at me all you please...xD)


	7. Slitting Wrists

_Hey guys, I know, I know, I'm waaay too slow with updating. Then again, none of you are reviewing._

_Chapter 7: Slitting Stones  
**DISCLAIMER: No, still don't own Sirius. Jhye, however, is mine  
**_**WARNING:** **Oooh, self-mutilation and depressing content, do not read if against/squeamish.  
**

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All I can do is watch helplessly as she stands just out of reach, the sharp stone clutched between her blistered and bleeding fingers, fingers once slender and beautiful, drawing figures in her own blood. I can't do anything; my pleading only draws a twisted grin upon her face, one that seems to enjoy my agony, and her pain. There are deeps scars running up, down, and across her arms now, scars littered with tiny shards of rock. The places that aren't scarred are covered with fresh cuts and she's even moved on to bruises now. It kills me to see her now; pale face and lank hair, her eyes filled with nothing more than pain and blood lust, the arms scarred and her spirit broken.

She claims she has nothing to live for; and perhaps she is right. I find it difficult to admit this, but it honestly seems to be the truth. Life in Azkaban, no bright future there. Her only love snatched cruelly away-what else could she do? I spend hours, no matter how bleak the situation, trying to talk her out of her pain, trying to coax the sharp stone from between her bleeding fingers. She never came near me again, never since that morning she held me for dear life.

Until today. I was slightly surprised, to say the least, when I heard her whispering to me from her cell.

"Sunshine," she whispered, her voice as hollow as the reeds and terribly scratchy. I immediately got up and catered to her, hoping she might perhaps share with me the ability to make her misery disappear, even in the slightest. Giving her a quizzical look, I allowed her to speak as she wanted.

Looking even more forlorn and worn up close, she fell silent, the only sound in the entire chamber the soft rattle of her breath. Without a word she held out her closed fist, as if handing me something, and I accepted. I felt the cold stone as it fell into the palm of my hand, still slightly moist with her freshest cut, smoothed down from excessive use. I looked at it, matching her silence, and slowly closed my hand around it.

"Thank-you," I whispered quietly, crouching down to her level.

"Sunshine…Sirius…there's something I need to tell you," she began softly. "It's about Thomas."

"I'm always listening, Jhye, you know that."

"You…didn't look at him. Sirius, you didn't see him there-you told me…I did. I saw him-Sirius! He had my name etched into his skin. Over and over and over," she was growing more hysterical by the second, her voice rising and tears spilling from her eyes. "Jhye…I'm sorry…my love, my only love…I'll never leave you…"

I could only watch as she grew worse and worse for the wear, eyes watery and red, her heart literally broken into pieces that could never be rebuilt. "He lied…even to death he lied! Sirius, he told me everything would be alright, that he loved me more than anything, more than anything in his life. More than anything he'd ever know…how could he deceive me?" she wailed, sniffling desperately. "I mean…he was so strong…"

I hadn't any idea what to say to her, so I simply slid my hands around hers and gave them a gentle squeeze.

Moments passed and she merely looked at me, and I knew she hoped as much as I that there was something to say--something to make the situation better. "Oh, Jhye," I said, caressing her swollen fingers. At first she cringed with pain but soon sunk into the bars, staring blankly at her hands but allowing me to softly massage them.

Slightly more calm, her eyes refocused and traveled up to my face. I met her eyes, and as I did, I believe I saw the smallest trace of a smile. "You will always have me," I told her gently, "and you will always have Thomas. You know as well as I that he really did believe you were the best thing in his life," I continued, and her eyes watered but she did not cry.

Finally she nodded. "Perhaps…" she said softly, her eyes falling to her scarred wrists. "I thought it would help--I mean, someone told me it takes away your pain….and it does, Sirius, it really does. And then it all comes back, twice as bad," she drawled, "but I don't think you'd understand…you're stronger than that…"

At that moment I looked from her wrists back into her eyes, feeling slightly teary myself. "Trust me, Jhye, I know."

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Well, review if you'd like the next chapter, I need some inspiration and will make time if anyone is waiting for it D 


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